


aren't you tired tryin to fill that void

by blackwood (transjon)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Do Not Archive (The Magnus Archives), Fisting, Gags, M/M, Service Top, Trans Jonathan Sims, Trans Male Character, brief canon typical praise kink, feral jon becomes less feral with the help of martin domming the shit out of him, kink as a coping mechanism but like literally, oral fingering (kinda), post 159, softer than the tags make it sound
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:17:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22657885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transjon/pseuds/blackwood
Summary: In a different world maybe this would be more romantic; more drawn out; lessutilitarian.For a purpose other than filling a void. Something more than a distraction.In this world Jon kneels in front of Martin with his hands tied behind his back and drools down his chin, eyes unfocused as Martin fills his mouth with fabric.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 28
Kudos: 264





	aren't you tired tryin to fill that void

**Author's Note:**

> title is from shallow by lady gaga/bradley cooper
> 
> hmm this is one of those 'sex/kink for the sake of coping w something else' situations... sometimes if you are filled with an all consuming need to force ppl to share their trauma w u and ur spooky third eye you gotta just like, get gagged and fisted about it. distraction! and also it feels good
> 
> the word clit is used to refer to transmasc genital parts
> 
> another note, jon is ace, im ace... how ppl experience sex as ace ppl depends entirely on the person, the way i write jon is informed by my own experiences as sex neutral, yr own interpretations are equally valid. not rly relevant in this fic v much. 
> 
> also im still figuring out how to write especially martin in this context, if it feels ooc thats why, hes an enigma, a mystery,

Regardless of the circumstances leading up to it, Martin can’t help but to feel impossibly affectionate when Jon’s on his knees like this. In a different world what they’re doing would be more romantic; more drawn out; less _utilitarian._ For a purpose other than filling a void. Something more than a distraction. 

In this world Jon kneels in front of Martin with his hands tied behind his back and drools down his chin, eyes unfocused as Martin fills his mouth with fabric.

It’s nothing like the kink he’s used to doing. He’s never been _needed_ like this before. Not in this way, a way where inflicting pleasure is secondary to simply draining this man he cares about so deeply of the capability and raw want to take and consume and _ruin_.

“Good?” he asks softly anyway, hands brushing against his cheeks as he pulls away, straightens up. 

Jon nods, slowly, and then again, just for good measure. He bites down on the gag, jaw working as his teeth sink into the fabric as much as they can. The scarf he’d tied into knots and tied around his skull is hardly a ball gag, but it does the job. Jon can’t talk around it, no matter how badly he wants to, how hard he tries. 

There’s a feverish look in his eyes. Martin wants so badly to pet his hair. Nothing’s really stopping him, he guesses. He doesn’t, regardless.

He wishes the statements Basira sneaks into the mail filled Jon up more, for longer, with more satisfaction – he wishes they didn’t have to do this every time after they go out – he wishes he didn’t have to pull him away from every potential victim by his jacket or by his wrist – he wishes this town didn’t have anyone with something to say. He wishes Jon wasn’t wild and feral and unpredictable with hunger and need and the scent of blood he can’t have after every trip outside. He wishes. He wishes. 

Jon chews down on the fabric with a wet, muffled sound. He’s making a growling noise low in his throat. It’s certainly not helping his feral image – those feverish, huge eyes with blown pupils, trembling hands, wet lips. 

“Do it,” Martin says. 

Jon crackles with fierce, hungry energy. It feels strange. It feels good. Without words the compulsion just turns into a quiet, desperate _want_ with nothing specific behind it. Something. Martin always wonders if this is how Jon always feels – want. Want. Want. Always wanting _something_. 

Martin just ends up wanting _Jon_. Maybe the compulsion just grabs a hold of whatever closest, most accessible desire it finds.

“Again,” after the static fades and Martin feels steady again. He takes a fistful of Jon’s hair into his hand and pulls, gently. “Go again. Try harder.”

Jon tries to scream out his words this time but the knot is pushing his tongue down against the bottom of his mouth. The sound comes out garbled, unintelligible, just desperate and angry and so, so sad, and Martin wants to feel bad about the fact that the surge of static that goes through him makes his body react the way it does. That’s the thing about compulsion without a direction, though – he feels pleasantly tingly, in charge, all there. Present and warm. It’s the exact opposite Jon’s feeling at the moment, he’s sure, and the thought comes with a distant pang of guilt, and that almost changes something about how he feels. Not quite.

Jon notices it, too – as if he can smell his arousal like he can smell out people with stories painful and relevant and important enough for his purposes – and for a second he comes back to himself, pupils returning to almost normal, but then Martin touches his cheek and he bites down again, that animalistically unfocused look returning. 

He doesn’t need encouragement this time, and the attempt rumbles through Martin’s head as a command to do something, anything. He directs it into grabbing him by the hair again and yanking his head to the side, abruptly, the shock and force of it making the failed compelling come to a screeching halt, the buzz in Martin’s brain fading instantly. 

By this point he’s undeniably hard. He puts a hand on each one of Jon’s cheeks. In his hands, Jon’s face scowls around his gag. 

He’s almost worried what will happen if he learns to compel people with just his mind – if, eventually, he can just look at people to make them do things. Jon – or the thing hiding inside of him – can tell what he’s thinking and laughs, raspy into the gag. Martin pays it no mind. With one of his hands he grabs a hold of Jon’s hair again, and with a sharp tug Jon stops laughing, moaning in half-pain instead.

It’s like watching a wolf snap at a rabbit midchase, foamy saliva flying out of its dark, deep mouth as the teeth barely just miss the rabbit’s feet. The fabric in his mouth is soaked with spit enough to almost drip down onto the floor. If it was anyone else in the world he would be disgusted. Not with Jon. 

Eventually he screams himself hoarse. He gets half-hearted, sloppy with his thoughts and wants and commands, the static and rumble and gentle melody of his coaxing and demanding barely reaching Martin, even from so close up, and Martin loosens his grip in his hair, gently, slowly, until he’s just carding his fingers through it. His eyes stay unfocused, but he’s present within them. Just like he’s running a fever, not an animal looking for an easy kill anymore. This is when he finally, finally gets to be sweet. When he gets to bring Jon back into his own body, his head, make him take up the entirety of his own brain for just a little while, just long enough. Just barely long enough.

“You did so good,” Martin half-whispers. He cups Jon’s cheek with one hand, feels the scars and the rough patches of skin. Jon shudders against it, presses his cheek into it. With his other hand Martin touches the damp knot of fabric gently, like it’s a part of Jon’s body. “Ready for me to take it out?”

Jon nods. Martin opens the knots at the back of his skull first, careful not to pull on his hair, combing his fingers through it where it’d been flattened against the back of his head by the pressure and tension, and then works it out of his mouth. Fingertips barely touching his molars pulling the ball of fabric out. Opening his mouth wide open. Jaw clicking and crunching. 

The motion of his jaw opening wide makes Jon yawn painfully. It’s such a human thing to do it makes Martin ache inside. Jon’s exhausted but he’s still listening, he can tell, and it makes something flicker in his eyes. 

“I’m sorry.” His voice is rough and raw and wet. 

“I don’t mind,” Martin says softly.

“I don’t know why.”

Beat. 

“It’s you.” 

Jon doesn’t say anything to that.

They stay like that for a while. It’s hard to say how long, exactly – all Martin can focus on is Jon leaning against his thighs, arms still tied behind his back, an afterthought. His head is heavy and warm and hard against him, the weight comforting. Vulnerable. Jon keeps shifting restlessly every so often, thighs rubbing together in his kneeling position, and Martin knows it’s not just because he’s getting uncomfortable on the floor, knees sore and bruising –

Something primal and exhilarating in being held still and being told no. In the relief and the anger and the release. 

He used to get guilty about it, about Martin holding him down and exhausting him and making him _safe_ again, only to need _more_, because he wouldn’t want to do anything _back,_ and he would slink into the shower to take care of himself or, later, they’d do it together, but then he’d figured –

Well – 

The first part is to make him safe again.

The second part is to fill the absence of what he wanted so badly with _something_. 

Taking something away. Giving something back. 

“Please,” he says. Martin doesn’t need to ask what he wants. 

The part in between is allowed to be soft. Martin gets to pet his head and cheeks and neck and tell him he’s good. This part he wants rough – Martin shoving three fingers in Jon’s still sore mouth, pressing down on his tongue as Jon half-gags and struggles and tears up. He doesn’t _have_ to get them wet, but it feels good, and Jon drips saliva down his chin around them, eyes tearing up as he struggles to allow his mouth to accommodate the shape of them. 

The _extraction_ of a fresh, warm-blooded statement is a hard, fast thrill. No matter how long the story is, how long it takes the subject to relive it, it happens _fast_, every feeling and minute detail flashing in his mind at the same time, overstimulating and filling and _satisfying_. This is the closest it gets to it – being thrown on the ground, and for a second Martin’s mind lingers on his still-tied hands, but Jon doesn’t say anything and he doesn’t seem uncomfortable, so he just lets it be. He breathes hard, the rhythm and movement of his chest almost violent, and for a desperate Martin thinks about kissing him. 

Instead he pulls Jon’s trousers and underwear all the way down to his knees in one swift motion, and Jon makes a noise full of anticipation. He always wants to take this part slow, but Jon never wants him to. 

He pushes his legs as open as they will go with his knees restricted, and spreads him open with his fingers. Jon hisses at the touch, sharp. He’s wet, but Martin knew that, and instead of marveling on it he dips a finger up to the first knuckle into him immediately with no further foreplay. Jon twitches, and Martin draws his finger back out. 

“Martin,” Jon says, and a trace of compulsion rushes through Martin’s body, so he pushes the fingers of his free hand back into Jon’s mouth. The angle is slightly awkward, but he manages. Jon tries to gag. Martin ignores it. He swipes the thumb of his other hand across his clit firmly, and then back again, and Jon moans around his fingers, the sound resonating through the bones of his wet fingers. On the back of the moan Martin slips his ring finger into him, thumb staying on his clit, just the firm pressure, the gentle tease. 

He knows Jon feels the stretch – he tenses immediately, muscles flexing around his finger, mouth going slack. He doesn’t let him adjust. This isn’t about adjusting. He sets a pace, one finger thrusting inside of him, thumb rubbing across his clit, and when he stops clenching around him quite as hard he slips in his middle finger. 

And slip truly is the right verb – he’s wet enough that even if Martin’s fingers force him to open up and adjust it’s not hard to get things into him. He tightens up. Shudders. Martin pushes down on his tongue at the same time as he spreads him open with his fingers, stretches him, and Jon makes a gargled, shuddery sound that barely makes it out of his throat. 

Martin shoves in his pinky finger. 

He can tell this is the part where Jon is going to need a few seconds to adjust. He’s breathing hard, and Martin draws the hand in his mouth out a little bit. 

“Are you going to behave?”

Jon nods wildly, a dazed look in his eyes. Without Martin’s fingers, his mouth just falls open. He pants like a dog and thrusts into Martin’s hand uncoordinatedly, sloppily, and Martin spreads his fingers inside of him, hard. It makes an obscene, wet sound. He’s unraveling hard and fast, and Martin loves him like this, empty of thoughts and feelings and worries and _hunger_, wanting only _him_ and his fingers and Martin loves giving that to him. 

The only sounds around him are the ticking clock, Jon’s ragged breathing, and whatever filthy, wet sounds his fingers make inside of him while he works him open relentlessly, mercilessly, shoving his fingers in deep and stretching him apart, and when he thinks he can take it, with his thumb rubbing hard circles against his clit he works in his index finger.

It’s harder this time – touching his clit makes him tense up with the stimulation so he has to stop touching it, and this is always the part Martin thinks he can’t take more. That his body has been stretched to its limits, fingers meeting bone on either side. And every time, after a minute or two of patient, constant stretching, pulling his fingers as far apart as he can, fucking them in and out, something inside of him gives, muscles fluttering, and he can wiggle in his thumb. 

It takes a while to work his whole hand in, but with the thumb inside it’s easier than Martin would expect it to be. He folds his fingers together and Jon takes a deep breath, willing his trembling body to relax. Martin pushes, steady, constant pressure, and then he sinks in, slowly, centimeter by centimeter, and by the time he’s in to the widest part of his hand Jon is shaking uncontrollably, gasping for air with his mouth open. 

Martin wants to tell him he loves him. Instead he says “God, you’re taking it so well,” and it’s almost the same thing. 

A minute more of patient pushing and Martin’s hand slips in to the wrist. Jon lets out a noise that sounds almost feral, and his hips twitch towards Martin, once, twice, and Martin reaches with his free hand to rub his clit, just slow motions, gentle, light. He can’t get off like this, and he doesn’t want him to, not yet. 

He can’t find any specific spots inside of him like this, not without being able to feel around with his fingertips, not with him full with his other fingers in the way, but he grinds his hand up, heavy, pressure in it, and Jon’s breath hitches in his throat. Around his hand his muscles try to tense and clench uselessly, and his clit twitches visibly, rhythmically, desperately. Martin jerks it gently with two fingers, and Jon’s hips twitch like he doesn’t know whether to thrust into it or pull away. 

He’s so ready to come, Martin can tell. Not yet, he thinks. 

He pulls his fist backwards, so that the widest part of his hand, just before his thumb branches out of his hand, is situated so that it stretches his hole, spreads him apart, and Jon takes a sharp breath, the muscle fluttering around his hand, squeezing hard. “Relax,” he says. A tear slides down Jon’s cheek. He almost wonders if this is going to be too much, if he can take it. He wants to wipe his tear away.

“You’re doing so well,” he exhales, “relax. Relax.” 

Despite the situation, Jon makes a soft _oh_ sound in response, always so eager for compliments, for praise, for validation, so glad to be _good_ for anyone that’ll acknowledge it – sweet lovely _good_ Jon, twitching and spread so open by his hand.

He takes a deep breath, and flares his fingers in him, opening up his palm, and Jon’s whole body tenses up, mouth opening in a silent gasp, and Martin slides his entire hand back in again, sinking back to the wrist, going in until it can’t go further, Jon clenching down on him. The pressure makes it hard for him to keep his hand open like this, but he’s persistent, and it feels so good when Jon shudders, a deep thing, and that’s all it takes for him to finally start fucking him with his hand, his fist, his flared out fingers pulling him apart, filling him up so completely. 

Jon cries and gasps and every time his knuckles drag over something sensitive his chest heaves with stuttering breaths. Watching him makes Martin lighthearted with desperate love and affection, him, half human, half something else, so caught up in the physical sensations of his flesh he can’t fit more _want_ into himself, can’t want anything else. 

He takes pity on him, finally. He’s so wet and sloppy and stretched open that his hand keeps almost slipping out accidentally while he fucks him with it. He figures he’s earned it. He figures he’s already out of his head enough. He bends his body slightly so that he can reach him with his mouth. 

He’s so hard. He keeps twitching whenever something Martin does feels good, and when he takes him into his mouth he clenches down, hard, the wet suction of Martin’s mouth too much for him, finally, tied together hands scrambling for anything to solid to hold onto, scratching the floor underneath him. 

“Martin,” he gasps. He tries to say something else, but instead his mouth just opens and closes, and then he closes his eyes tight, and shudders, hard. Martin’s hand is squeezed, hard – once, twice, three times –, and then his back arches and he’s whining, a long, low, stuttering sound. 

Martin waits until the contractions die down, and then he pulls his hand out, slow, fingers tucked together again. Jon flinches gently when he gets to the thick, wide drag of the flat of his palm, but he doesn’t make a sound. Martin’s absence leaves him gaping slightly. He almost wants to kiss him there, just lightly. 

He pulls Jon’s limp body into his arms, untying his hands, his arms in the process. He lets himself be handled like a rag doll, nothing like the tense, spitting angry creature he had been just a while ago. Nothing like the thing he had to drag home from the village, who he had to wrestle into coming back into himself for long enough to allow him to tie his hands together, who he had to gag and tire out. He pets his back absently, scratching his skin through the thin shirt he’s wearing. 

“Thank you for doing this,” Jon says, heavy with emotion. 

“I’ll do it next time too,” Martin says quietly. “If you want me to.”

“I’ll let you know if I don’t.”

They’re quiet for a moment. Jon feels heavy with not quite satisfaction, but something close to contentment. Martin doesn’t know how it feels, exactly. He feels like he’s okay. He hopes he is. 

Eventually Jon pulls his boxers back up, hands shaky and unsteady. They’re wet and sticky and no doubt uncomfortable, but Martin doesn’t comment on it, and Jon doesn’t say anything. Martin can tell he’s debating getting up, but eventually he settles, having come to the conclusion that his legs probably won’t carry him yet.

“You know you did good, right,” Martin says softly. It feels like they have to be quiet. Like some_thing_ might overhear them. 

“You had to restrain me,” Jon protests.

“You _let_ me restrain you. I couldn’t have, if you hadn’t let me.”

Jon chews on this for a bit. Turns it over in his mouth. His jaw works, subconscious, still sore from the makeshift gag. 

“Okay,” he says, finally. 

“You’re a good person,” Martin says, and he’s so sincere with it he can feel himself _ache_. “Thank you for trusting me.” He thinks Jon can feel the ache. He isn’t sure how it makes Jon feel, this ache. This confession.

“I’m not,” Jon says, “a person. Not anymore.”

“You are. In every way that matters.”

Jon makes a _hmm_ noise. He’s not convinced. He buries his head in Martin’s chest. He’s not sure but he thinks he might be chewing on his hoodie string. 

“Do you want me to...y’know?” 

He asks every time. “No,” says Martin. Every time. Jon always Knows his real feelings when he answers this question. He’s always satisfied. 

It takes a few more minutes until Jon feels emotionally and physically stable enough to get up. Martin gets up as well, arms reaching out to steady him, but Jon shakes his head. “I’m okay,” he says, and the ghost of a tired smile flickers on his face. 

Martin gets himself off alone in the empty bedroom while Jon takes a shower alone. It only takes a few fast tugs for him to finish, gasping, out of breath. He lies down on the multicolor quilted bedspread, sprawled out on his back, still in his shirt. His jeans and underwear are bunched up around his ankles. He thinks about changing into his pyjamas. 

“Martin?” comes Jon’s voice from the bathroom. 

“Yeah?”

There’s a pause. And then, with a waver in his voice:

“You’re still here, right?” 

And Martin knows he means more than, are you still in the house? He means, “do you still love me? Do you love me, despite this, despite everything I want, and need, and crave, and everything I do that you don’t like and can’t accept and I don’t want to do and that tears me apart? Will you stay even if what I become tries to drive you away? Even if I become so monstrous you can no longer find the human parts in me? Even if what stays is almost as monstrous as whatever monster I’m becoming? That I’ve already become?”

He doesn’t know if Jon’s Looking, or if he can, from this far away, without actually seeing him with his human eyes. He doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter.

“Always,” he says. “Always, Jon.” 

He hopes so desperately that Jon can hear the resolution in his voice, in his heart. 

“Okay,” Jon says. He sounds convinced enough. He sounds okay. 

Martin holds onto that. It’s enough. For now it’s enough.

**Author's Note:**

> hi im blqckwoods.tumblr.com feel free to come hang out


End file.
